


Taking BP III:  Madison Bumgarner

by light_source



Series: Taking BP [3]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:36:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/light_source
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Southern boys don't.  Until they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking BP III:  Madison Bumgarner

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a prompt in the 2012 mlbanonmeme kinkmeme: _five baseball players Buster fucked and one baseball player Buster 'made love' to._
> 
> In progress; Part 3 of 7.

Southern boys don’t.

//

It’s hot up here on the third floor. There’s no air conditioning, so Buster gets up and hauls open the bottom sash of the dormer window and props it open with a book. But the heavy, wet air just slithers in over the sill and over the floor like a snake, and that’s probably what starts it.

Buster slinks back to his couch and his textbook. Across from him, on the other couch, facing in the opposite direction, the other kid’s reading and scratching a line under his jaw, which gleams with sweat.  The guy's tall and skinny, with dark blue eyes that droop a little at the corners.  His ears stick out like the handles on a sugar bowl.

Buster whips his tee shirt off one-handed without disturbing the civics book that’s heavy on his thigh. The tall kid - North Carolina, maybe? - doesn’t look up, but he pulls his tank top off too, fingers it into a ball and tosses it under the table.

It’s the last weekend in April, the southern conference championship, and no matter what happens on the field tomorrow, they’ll be back at their respective high schools on Monday, to tests and teachers. And Buster’s gotta take his SATs next Saturday.

While the tall kid’s studying, he’s eating peanuts, and the sound’s driving Buster crazy.  The guy cracks the shells with his teeth and then tips his head back, sucking in the two nuts like it’s an oyster. There’s a trail of peanut dust down his sweaty neck and he’s stacked the shells into a heap on his stomach, where a line of dark hair trails downward towards his jeans.

If Buster were looking, he’d notice how the pile of shells on the kid's flat belly rises and falls with each breath. And how the V of brown on the guy’s neck matches his forearms. And his jaw, where there’s the beginning of a beard, but he’s still too young to have figured out he needs to shave it.

Buster sighs. The book in his lap’s gotten heavier - the laminated cover’s cutting into his thigh. And it’s poking into his shorts.

When he shifts his hip to ease the pointy cover off himself, he realizes he’s half-hard, his cock printing against the cotton jersey like a heavy length of pipe. He feels the flush creeping up his neck, a trail of sweat trickling down his side from his armpit.

//

Southern boys don’t.

But the tall boy’s pulled Buster’s blue gym shorts down with a single flick of the wrist, and he’s got his mouth on Buster’s cock, which is straining against his white jockey underwear, and the kid’s breathing hot against the fabric, tongue and teeth. It’s not long before the fabric’s stretchy and slick with pre-come and spit and sweat.

It’s so impossibly hot, seeing the boy's long eyelashes and that wet red mouth working his tool, that Buster squirms his ass up and reaches down with both hands to shimmy off his shorts.

The kid slaps Buster’s hands away. His hand joins his mouth, slowly stroking the shaft through the fabric while he works over the sensitive head with his lips. Buster can’t help the way his hips buck up into that maddening heat.

When the kid finally, _finally,_ uses his fingers to pull the elastic waistband back, Buster’s cock springs free, arching up and snapping against the boy’s chin. His eyes fasten on Buster’s. He licks his own hand, his long tongue glistening with spit. When that wet hand starts stroking his shaft and that wet mouth’s tonguing his dickhead, Buster can’t help moaning, out of his mind with how good it feels.

That’s when the kid’s other hand flies up and clamps Buster’s lips shut. When their eyes meet, the kid’s shaking him off with a warning glance and a single shake of the head.

//

Southern boys don’t.

The tall boy’s even younger than Buster, and straighter, and religious - there’s a cross around his neck - and he’s from some tiny town in _North Carolina_ for fuck’s sake.

So when the boy licks the fingers on his other hand , digs under Buster’s hips and eases one of them into Buster’s tight, puckered hole, all the older boy can think is that they must have some amazing sex-education classes up there in the Tarheel State.

And _oh, yeah. Yeah. Oh, fuck._

//

When they’re both back on their couches, and Buster’s turned his attention back to the Dred Scott Decision, he realizes that the sound of the way the kid’s cracking open the peanut shells is still driving him crazy.

But there’s a trace on Buster's mouth of the salty dust he’d licked off the boy’s lips. And there's the musky, sweet, slippery taste of cock and come.  

Buster figures he can tune it out for at least another couple of chapters.

Because Southern boys don’t, right?

Until they do.

 

 


End file.
